


Lords of Land and Sky

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alpha Wolf Analogy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, F/M, Gen, Multi, Russian Mafia, Unique (aka Unorthodox) Marriage Proposals, fight to the death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 05:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5731858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fight to the death, winner takes all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lords of Land and Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This one went on a little longer than expected, and it seems to be taking on a life of its' own. We'll see where it leads. Anyway, as mentioned in the tags, some relatively graphic violence in here; rated to be safe.
> 
> There was also some major inspiration from "Game of Thrones" for this piece; namely, the Daenerys Targaryen storyline.

At the moment of birth, his father is said to have looked upon him and, in a fit of drunken insanity, accused his wife, mother to his first and only son, of something unheard of since the days of Grecian mythology: conceiving her child with the eagle, ruler of the skies. No child of his could possibly be born with eyes such as these, his father is said to have declared; eyes so large and bright even at birth. Eyes, his father had shrieked upon his last breath, that stole the soul. And so Alexander Orlov’s father passed from this world, drunk and declaring his infant son a hybrid of man and animal. Like the Minotaur of great lore, it is said.

Sixty-eight years later, Alexander cannot say what caused his father’s passing. The official cause of death was a heart attack, brought on by a dreadful lifestyle plagued with sloth and far too much alcohol. But perhaps, in his final moment, Alexander’s father possessed a sudden burst of clarity. Maybe his son was indeed born not of man, but of something else. Something greater.

He likes to think it is so, for it validates the strength of his bond with Audrey Volkov—and yes, that will always be his friend’s name, not that atrocious blend of English-French he adopted upon coming to America—and all that Fate inspired between them. The eagle and the wolf, lords of land and sky, with piercing eye and fierce soul, wings to fly and claws to attack, and through it all, blood of blood. Brothers, united as one, from the first moment. They shared schooling in Russia, an exciting journey to America as young men with dreams of wonderfully profitable lives in a new country, and stood side by side at each other’s wedding. 

Alexander had done his mother proud, finding a sweet-faced college-age cherub shortly after his thirty-fifth year, with thick auburn curls and the deepest brown eyes ever to be found, who could ran her kitchen with pride, produced meals which quickly contributed to her husband’s expanding waistline, and bore him a veritable litter of healthy sons.

Audrey, once again, had proved the rebel, the black sheep with an iron will. The story makes Alexander’s head spin, even today: his dearest friend leaving one night to avenge his father’s untimely death at the hands of Italy’s Falcone family, and returning with a great air of trembling excitement. He’d lowered down into a chair, a short distance from Alexander’s, drawn a careful sip of his brandy, and then looked up with light dancing unchecked in his eyes.

 _“Tonight, brother, God has delivered blessings twice over.”_ He’d said, joy unbridled in his voice. _“I have returned my father’s fate to his killer. And I have met my bride.”_

Sylvia Falcone had been known to him, to both of them, well before that night. The Italian Rose, many called her; the most coveted maiden in Gotham amongst the Italian clans, with men fit to commit all manner of sins just for the chance to claim her. Leave it to Audrey to join them while he was supposed to be upholding his father’s honor.

But Audrey hadn’t been just another star-struck fool head-over-heels in love, and in that respect, Alexander was able to forgive his friend’s distraction from familial duties. Warring clans be damned, Audrey had courted Sylvia Falcone in ways that would make Don Juan himself green with jealousy. And, when the wedding was announced not even a year later, it was clear all efforts had paid off, and Alexander finally bore witness to this strange woman who bewitched Audrey’s heart and soul. One look at delicate porcelain skin, velvet-black curls, lips to shame a rose, and the most striking blue eyes crafted by God’s hand, Alexander had understood. This woman was no fragile flower; she was a she-wolf to her core. As perfect as Alexander’s brown-eyed mistress of the kitchen had been for him, so had Sylvia been for Audrey. Once again, Fate had dealt them a perfectly identical hand.

Fate, however, seems to have also dealt them a similar hand in their children, and not in a way to promote joy and gratitude. Alexander personally blames Audrey’s compromise from his homeland’s given name to something “more reasonable for American ears”. At least to an extent. Stripping his son of his true name gave Marcus nothing worthy of pride and certainly did nothing to engrain a sense of responsibility into the boy’s head. He was a dreamer from childhood, showed some artistic promise in the late teen years, and then Maria Conveé entered his life, and it all went to Hell.

 _“The girl has the beauty of a siren,”_ Audrey had told him, once, with deep lines creasing his handsome brow and a scowl depicting only bone-deep grief at its corners, _“and the wicked soul of Medusa. She has taken my son, and I shall never hope to regain him again.”_

Prophetic words, sadly so; he’d watched Audrey’s health deteriorate too fast, too terribly, and not even the steadfast care of his devoted wife could save him. 

So it is only understandable, given the circumstances, that Alexander was shocked to see the light back in his old friend’s eyes, even when his time was drawing near. Stark-white hair, skin weathered and creased, body brittle and failing him, yet Audrey had paid him a final visit with head held high, standing tall with only minimal use of his cane, and joy once more in his heart.

He was a grandfather.

 _“She wears Sylvia in her reflection, brother.”_ Audrey had declared of his then-toddler granddaughter, barely five years of age. _“There is hope for our bloodline yet.”_

But whatever hope was to be found, Alexander’s eyes hadn’t seen it. His brother died much too soon, and Sylvia shortly thereafter, and neither of them had spent more than a single day with this cherished child. His mourning period had been long, and then grief was replaced with rage, to hear Marcus had escaped life the coward’s way. The papers romanticized even the most vulgar details of that horrendous marriage, with little mention of the child. 

Once or twice, Alexander had thought to seek her out, perhaps repay some debt to his fallen brother and raise the girl as his own. But the thought never amounted to anything, and little Iris was marked as the misbegotten spawn of a failure father. He resigned himself to the sad truth: she would never live long enough to fulfill Audrey’s dreams and hopes.

***

When she walks into his quiet little pub in the northern part of Gotham, Alexander nearly drops his pipe. _Sylvia_ , he thinks, only for a moment, and then the light brings her into sharper focus, and what was previously a warm tingle of familiarity blossoms to incredulous delight. At barely twenty-one, the girl is younger than Sylvia upon their first meeting, many years prior, but even her youth doesn’t disguise what her grandfather had declared: she is very much Sylvia’s younger reflection. He has half a mind to rise and embrace her, forgoing the watchful eyes of his children, and greet her as he should have when she was a child.

But Ivan is younger and much faster, and he regards Iris with cold disdain. It is saddening, and he can only think Fate truly meant to deal him and Audrey the same hand throughout their lives. Marcus will always be the greater disappointment between them, but Ivan holds a candle in his own way. Much too brash, inclined to think with violence rather than tact, and, as evidenced by the way he literally spits at the girl’s feet, hardly willing to believe something worthwhile can be bred from Marcus’ genes. He is Alexander’s firstborn, as Marcus was Audrey’s, but tonight he shames his father. He calls Iris a dog, without any consideration for the blood that runs through her veins. Not her father’s, but her grandfather’s. The man whose name is spoken in their household with honor and respect.

Iris employs Sylvia’s graceful diplomacy, nearly impassive to all threats thrown at her, but the Eagle’s eyes miss nothing, and Alexander sees the telling flash when Ivan speaks of this “freak” which she apparently keeps in her company and in her bed. It intrigues an old man. It tells him this man, whatever manner of “freak” he may or may not be, is not just another lackey in her shadow. He has seen this look only once before in his life: the moment before Audrey slit the throat of a foolish man who insulted Sylvia’s honor before their marriage.

The child declares herself to be her own champion, unafraid by Ivan’s towering form and broad muscles. Alexander says little beyond agreement, until she is preparing to leave. Then, he quietly instructs her to bring all in her present employ, as he will assemble all the brethren. Winner take all, and the prize will be laid out for both to view.

She agrees.

***

He really does wish Ivan would show a little decorum. He has eagle blood in his veins, not peacock. Strutting about with tail feathers spread is not only unnecessary and improper; it’s embarrassing. Even Ivan’s brothers are looking away, distancing themselves from his very presence. The youngest among them, little Peter, looks at the dark-haired young woman standing on the other side, lines drawn in the sand via a craterous pit in what was once a dog-fighting arena. Blood is still dried on the wood-plank walls and across the concrete floor. 

Alexander frowns at the venue his son has chosen. Its’ implications are not subtle: he likened young Iris to a dog, and here they are, in a place where two dogs meet and one emerges alive. There is no elegance, no finesse, nothing but crude brutality in a wretched venue. In this moment, his son truly shames him, and he offers a prayer of apology to Audrey’s spirit, that vengeance will not come upon him for this insult.

He elects to join little Peter in examining the company a distance away. By comparison to his twenty-some men and their women, Iris’ offering is small. A tall and large man with dark hair and anxiety in his gaze stands off to the left; he has the mannerisms of hired help, nothing more, but there is a distinct reverence in his gaze as he looks to Iris that hints of something else. Alexander rather thinks, perhaps, this fellow looks to Iris as a son to his mother. _Strange_ , but certainly not the strangest sight to be seen.

What Ivan referred to as a little street rat is anything but. The child is sharp angles and sleek feline lines, lacking in adolescent curves but certainly not wanting for youthful beauty, with her large green eyes and unruly golden curls. She meets his gaze with an icy glare; the blame for what is to transpire has been placed on his shoulders, and rightfully so, he supposes. Her fury in itself intrigues him; she clings to Iris’ shadow as a child to its mother, but as protective as a sister. To the right, he watches Ivan eye her and lick his lips, obscenely. He is obliged to look away, the shame growing heavier. Lusting after the young... _Where did we go wrong with our children, Brother?_

The final party in Iris’ company must be the “freak,” and once again, Ivan has demonstrated his inability to describe anyone or anything with great accuracy. This man is strange-looking, in his own right, absent any hair on his head or face, which brings the vivid blue of his eyes into sharp focus. But Ivan declared him a freak, which implies an oddity worthy of amusement, and there is little amusing about this man. His eyes are dangerous, cold as ice, patient as the mightiest hunter among them, wild and feral as an animal.

Little Peter continues to stare at Iris. He looks at her with great awe, with wonder. Large brown eyes behold her as the worshiper does his deity, and finally Alexander’s curiosity gets the best of him. He draws his youngest, and smallest, son to his side with a hand on his shoulder and a question in his eyes. Peter looks at his father through dark brown curls, looks back at Ivan as he sheds his shirt and enters the pit, then sighs quietly.

“ _Ivan is going to die, Father._ ” He says, very softly. “ _She is going to kill him._ ”

“ _How do you know this, little one?_ ” Peter is most certainly the dreamer of his brothers, but never has he proven prophetic. To make such declarations is not in his character.

Peter looks at Iris, once more, as she too enters the pit; the dark-haired man takes hold of her green-eyed young one, restraining her when it appears the child is half-trembling with a need to plunge into the pit herself and fight Iris’ battle for her. “ _Because she has done it before._ ”

“ _To whom?_ ”

“ _The bad man._ ”

Alexander takes pause, eyes darting between his son and the dark-haired wolf a short distance away. _The bad man._ The man who snatched up little Peter like a hawk with its fish dinner, ripping his son from a mother’s arms without a moment’s notice, dragged him away like scraps of meat…and then released him? It had seemed quite improbable at the time, but the sheer relief of having his child home had warranted little curiosity for the matter. Yet Peter had been persistent, these past months, telling his parents of the bad man who tried to kill him and the angel in black who had swept in from the heavens to avenge him.

He nearly stands, nearly commands this fight to end, for the sake of his son’s savior, but the laws stand rigid: once the challenge has been made and the fight begun, none can interfere.

***

The first time Ivan knocks her to the ground, it is barely five minutes into the fight. His fists are large, and strong, and two blows to her lower stomach, one after the other, cripple her strength. She recovers with more grace and much sooner than Alexander expects. She must be in pain, but if so, there is no sign of it apparent. She has a resolve of steel. David in female form, facing her Goliath even with bruises already forming deep in her flesh.

It would seem Ivan underestimates her; she falls under one too many blows, skin bruising dark red, split lip dark on her face, and his son believes this fight is soon done when she falls, yet again. It catches him by surprise when he throws her in a haphazard circle, watches her crash into the wall, and then her body twists. She delivers her own strike, a foot square against his jaw, and he stumbles back. She throws another blow to his throat, misses, and quickly dodges his recovering swipe before it can shatter her hip. His weapons are fists; hers are nails. Fingernails low and well-maintained, lovely in appearance and now bloodied as she cuts his face and hands with the unchecked fury of an animal.

Watching, Alexander can only think of a wolf and its’ wildcat nemesis: one has more brute strength, one has greater stamina, and each time there is a different winner. At his side, little Peter’s eyes are closed and his hands are clasped tight in prayer. He suspects those prayers are not for Ivan’s victory.

Ivan regains his upper hand through a dirty trick: a wooden plank taken in hand and thrown against her hip. She falls with a sharp cry, and he is upon her before any recovery can be made. Crushing her hips from behind, his hands wrap tight around her throat, and now it is only a question of whether he will first choke the life from her or snap her neck. 

_A fight to the death_ , Alexander thinks with great sadness. This is not how he wished Audrey’s final hope for the bloodline to end. Across the way, the little alley cat is fighting tooth and claw against the man barely restraining her, and the strange man with wild eyes appears to be straining at a self-imposed leash, gaze wide and frantic, yet somehow commanding something of Iris. What, exactly, Alexander can’t be sure. He cannot read this man, and he cannot see Iris’ face to know if she reads her lover or if her sole focus is on survival.

…And then, it happens.

Ivan’s hands abruptly leave her with a pained howl, and in the split-second that his hands toss in the air from reflex, Alexander sees what distinctly resembles claw marks down the backs of both hands. Iris twists and forcibly pulls her body to freedom, stumbling across the concrete for a moment. Ivan’s hands wrangle between pained grasps and furious clutches for his prey. Around them, men are shouting like a band of wild dogs. The sound of fabric ripping cuts through the air, then Ivan yelps again half a second after the _crack_ of a broken nose. She twists again, limbs furiously striking for her freedom. Ivan hoists her halfway off the ground, nearly by the scruff of her neck. She thrashes in a way that seems desperate, but evidently it was very deliberate, because her elbow connects with Ivan’s face and his nose cracks again. He yelps. She twists violently. Another rip of fabric follows, and she stumbles to the ground.

As her back is offered for all to view, Alexander sees her shirt has been torn violently, nearly ripped from her body in the struggle for escape, and only a handful of pitiful threads keep it in place. And he sees— _Oh merciful God…_ her back. Her _back_.

Scars. Too many to count in the short breath of time he has to look; some darker than others, each one layered atop another, they weave across her flesh like fine needlework, like paint strokes upon a canvas, like the metallic ridges encasing each fragment of a stained glass work. Her body is living art of the most macabre nature. The Devil’s own masterpiece.

He blinks, and then she’s on Ivan. Her eyes are dark. Her mouth is stained red from a lip bleeding in two places. Her teeth are white, too white when the rest of her is so dark. Her hands are at the ready, nails already bearing his blood. She lunges.

Then, a scream. Bloodcurdling. Horrific. Agonizing. Men fall silent, and the women draw nearer with eyes wide and unbelieving. Little Peter catches his breath and takes a tentative step forward. Alexander stays perfectly still, watching in absolute silence, as his son falls backwards, knees crashing against the concrete, both hands clasped tight over his eyes. His palms are broad and cover nearly all his face, but they moved half a second too late. All gathered see the violent crimson marks tracked down each side of his face, the blood streaming fast and thick, and the gaping black holes where his eyes once were.

Alexander looks away. _A fight to the death._ He waits for Ivan to stop screaming, and sobbing. He waits for it to end.

It never does.

He dares to look once more. She’s standing over Ivan, battered and bruised, ravaged, bloodied, but the rage has subsided from her features and she is once more benevolent. She lifts blue eyes to view those who stand before her in awed silence. At her feet, Ivan’s sobs gradually subside to muffled whimpers.

“Now that I have your attention, Ivan,” she says, very softly, and yet in the stifled silence her words resonate like church bells on Sunday morning, “allow me to address something with you.”

One hand casually lifts to brush a fleck of blood from her lips; it seems a strange and fruitless gesture, when her mouth is quite well stained dark with dried blood and the banishment of one tiny drop makes little difference in the grand scheme of things. “This man,” she gestures behind her, to the one with an animal’s wild blue eyes, and once again Alexander wonders why, when Ivan certainly can’t see, “is many things and has many names. _Freak_ is not among them. His name is Victor Zsasz. He is my partner. He is my equal. He is my tiger in the night, who has defended me, protected me, and avenged me since I was a child.”

The briefest pause follows, broken by his son’s muffled tears, and then her eyes lift to meet Alexander’s, piercing and dark, vicious and yet utterly calm, “And he is my husband.”

The atmosphere changes amongst them all, but it is the change in this man, this Victor, of which old eyes take the most notice. The tension does not fade gently, but is ripped from his frame and just as abruptly replaced with…What does one call that? Relief? Gratitude? No, no it’s something else. Something almost furious, violent in nature, but simultaneously elated. Such a strange cocktail of conflicting emotions, suddenly visible on the face of a man who nearly appears incapable of any emotion at all.

“You will do well to remember this, Alexander Orlov,” she continues, her gaze unwavering and nearly subarctic in its resolve, “the next time you allow one of yours to threaten our separation.”

Understanding dawns like a sun too bright and too pale on a cold winter morning. “ _This was never about earning your place in the clan._ ” He says, very slowly, unsurprised when she both nods and takes a pointed step forward.

“ _I am Audrey Volkov’s rightful heir,_ ” she declares, and he feels a surge of inexplicable relief as her grandfather’s native-given name falls from her lips as easily of a drop of water, natural and true and right, “ _as much as I am Carmine Falcone’s. Just because the fact is refused due acknowledgement does not make it any less true._ ”

A short beat, and then she turns back to study her fallen opponent. The blood is slowly beginning to dry, thick and sticky and muddied on both skin and the ground. “ _As it stands,_ ” she continues, “ _I have played by your rules, and I have triumphed. What becomes of your son now is your decision to make._ ”

 _Ah._ So that is how this game will end, then. Those who live apart from a world such as this would think the girl barbaric, cruel even, to make a father determine whether his son lives or dies; pass down judgment whether the boy is worthy of continued existence. Perhaps, in a way, she is. Perhaps he ought to take offense at her brazenness, her unapologetic brashness. He doesn’t. He finds it admirable. In this moment, she is far more Audrey’s reflection than Sylvia’s.

_Blood of my blood._

He quietly instructs little Peter to depart, before his young eyes behold anything further unseemly. This is not yet his world. In time, yes, but now is not such a time. The sound of tiny footsteps fade quickly, a door opens and closes from the shadows, then silence once more. The brethren stand in silence, watching him, their alpha, their leader. King in a land ruled by another. He looks upon his eldest in similar silence. He thinks of Audrey, and Marcus; of the shame and disappointment brought on by their firstborns. Audrey deserved another chance, to father as many sons as Alexander. Surely one of them would have proven worthy? Little Peter is the youngest among them, and already he is proving wise in his youth. Fate cut the deck short for Audrey. Far too short.

…Then again, perhaps not.

“ _Make it painless._ ” He speaks softly. It is the least a father can do for his son.

She barely blinks, and likewise doesn’t look away. “ _Moy tigr._ ” She whispers, the title barely a ghosting breath on the air, and from behind her, the figure in black comes to life.

The air is broken by the sharp _hiss_ of leather relinquishing its hold on a gun, gleaming silver in the light, for the steady grip of a hand covered also in black leather; blue eyes find their prey with sharp precision, and then a resounding _crack_ shatters the silence. A single bullet expels from the gun. Ivan twitches, once, and then falls still. Silent as the grave.

She steps away from the corpse, ascending to join her company via the offered hand of her dark-haired escort. The little blonde stands with limbs trembling, head held high and strong, but when Iris caresses her cheek with bloodied fingertips, young features crumple and tears stream thick from her eyes. Both arms wind fast around Iris’ waist, face buries in her breast, and fingers lock in fists against her bared flesh.

“ _Bury your son._ ” Iris says in a parting whisper. “ _Grieve and mourn as you need. Then we will talk._ ”

***

In what might be the most domestic display she’s ever seen from him, Victor rips free of all restraints and takes the charge of nurse upon himself. He throws orders left and right: Butch to prepare an ice bath, Selina to retrieve some towels, and his patient to get in the bath, stay put, and not move. He sheds his jacket, rolls both shirtsleeves to his elbows, and goes to work on the injuries accessible above her neckline. The rest will be dealt with in due time.

She quietly asks if he holds her beauty in too much regard: he makes a fuss over every little cut, scrape, and bruise to her face. He tells her to stop being a drama queen.

“If I cared that much about keeping your face pretty,” he says, carefully applying ointment to the swelling bruise around her right eye, in such a way that he resembles a painter with a canvas, “I wouldn’t bite your lips at every given opportunity.”

The thing unsaid is heard quite clearly: _**I** am the only one allowed to hurt you._ She finds that not nearly as disturbing as, perhaps, it should be.

When he deems it appropriate, Victor wraps her in a towel and carries her to bed. The ice water clings to her skin and she shivers nearly for half an hour before the warmth of a lit hearth and extra blankets soothes away the chill. Shakta drapes herself along one side, sharing her body’s heat, and rests her head atop Iris’ thigh. Victor joins her in the bed soon, pulling her to his chest and burying one cheek in her hair.

“Were you afraid, Victor?” she murmurs, joining their hands atop the bedcovers.

He makes a sound that almost resembles a chuckle, then kisses a path from temple to bare shoulder. “A simple _yes_ would have sufficed, you know.”

“And would you have remembered it so fondly?”

He smirks and says she presumes much, to think he’ll remember this fondly. But he will. They would have it no other way.

***

It’s been three weeks. Ivan’s funeral was a quiet affair, only family present. His wife grieved quietly; he found no tears even when he expected them. He wonders if Audrey would have grieved Marcus’ death, had he been alive to witness it. He thinks, perhaps, he might have; not the man Marcus was at death, but the little boy he’d once been. Grieving Ivan is difficult, frustratingly so, because he was so very young and so very difficult to love, to take pride in, when he expressed far more interest in bolstering his own success and sparing little consideration for the family.

This, he quietly decides, is why even the most fruitful vein branch needs pruning once in a while.

The large dark-haired man greets him at the door, introducing himself as “Butch”, and quietly invites him in. The young man is dressed casually, in a dark button-up shirt and slacks; the shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, and, after catching Alexander’s curious gaze, apologizes for his appearance. 

“We’re redecorating.” He explains, gesturing around to the foyer and adjacent rooms, all of which are in some state of disarray. What renovations are to be made, Alexander looks forward to seeing. There can be no doubt the child inherited her grandmother’s sense of style.

“Not staying.” He tells the younger man. “Ask She-Wolf to meet us, tonight. Bring all of family.”

Butch agrees to pass on the invitation. Two hours later, Alexander receives a call at the pub; the young wolf agrees to meet, and promises to be there by six o’clock.

***

She arrives five minutes early, with both men at her side and the golden-haired cat in her shadow. She wears the Victorian style with modern accents, in a way that would have made Sylvia proud to burst; her left ring finger is adorned with a radiant ensemble of gold and traditional diamonds, with a trio of sapphires set in the center and a silver band to complete the image. The tiger—and yes, she was right to name Victor Zsasz as such—wears a matching silver band on his left hand, simple and tasteful. It suits them very well.

His second-eldest, Dimitri, greets her at the door and brings them all upstairs, to an area kept exclusively private from the pub’s regular activities. He’s closed business early tonight, and they would technically have the entire first floor to use, but he keeps this room for tradition’s sake. It’s warmer up here, and furnished with fine leather and plush rugs to cover hardwood floors. The little cat quickly perches at the far window, where she can keep one eye on all proceedings outside and another on every gathered member. Zsasz draws his lady’s chair out, then settles in the one to her left. Alexander and the family sit at the table; the rest stand around them in respectful silence.

“Did not need to pay for funeral.” He says, struggling a little with the language of this country; there are far too many words required for common-day speech, and Americans seem to share the British obsession with making words pretty and poetic. Speaking blunt and direct is far simpler, not to mention more effective.

It was a surprise, when he’d pulled the funeral director aside and inquired as to the preferred method of payment, only to be told, as though this ought to be common knowledge, all costs had been dealt with. A few simple inquiries had given him all the answers needed. That was two weeks ago; he’s spent the last five days trying to determine how he should go about repaying the girl’s unexpected generosity.

“My time with my grandparents was far too short, Mr. Orlov.” She answers. “But Grandfather made the most of it. He taught me many lessons, and among them was this: family is everything. You do not disrespect it, unless you are prepared to forfeit your life in return. By the laws established before me, your son’s death was inevitable. That did not mean I intended to not pay my respects. I will not resurrect this clan on the grounds of senseless bloodshed. There has been God’s plenty of that thus far.”

“Then how to take down little bird?” he asks, “Claws are sunk into city. Only way to pull free is to break.”

“The little bird has thin little feet.” Iris replies, gaze hardening a little. “My tiger and I have claws. You have talons. Let us not give credit where it is not due.”

Silence falls for a moment; a few of the gathered exchange quiet glances, and an old man’s mind quietly thinks over things, pondering where to go next. “There is talk.” He finally says. “Rumors.”

“Of what?”

“Policeman.” He continues, fingers playing quietly across the head of his cane, resting at his left thigh. “Detective Gordon. You know him?”

“He is my father, so that would be an accurate statement.” She replies, unmoved, though he notices Zsasz’s eyes roll slightly with a tight grimace of the mouth. “What about it?”

“Rumors say little bird owns him.” Madeleine enters with a tray of tea and silently doles out the offering; Alexander takes a moment to wet his lips with the steaming drink, waits until his wife makes her exit with a bustle of lace-trimmed skirts, and then continues, “Streets speak very loud in this place. They tell me, detective has killed for little bird.”

She says nothing, but the sudden drop in her gaze speaks volumes, and her fingers fist tight atop the polished armrests. _She didn’t know._

Another moment passes, in heavy silence, and then the young wolf sighs, leans forward, and weaves her fingers together elegantly. “Why are you telling me this?”

He smirks, but only for the sheer irony of it all. “Family tree grows bad apples, weak limbs. Must be cut off, before tree dies. Clan is no different. Weak links are born, should be killed. For good of family.”

The sharp glint in her gaze tells him they are thinking of the same weaknesses: Marcus and his wife, Ivan…and now, perhaps, the policeman she calls _Father_. “I am not inclined to consider James owned by anyone, let alone the bird.” She finally says, though with a heavy tone that promises her grave understanding of the situation. “I wish to speak with him myself, and learn the truth behind rumors. He deserves the benefit of the doubt.”

“Very well.” He nods. “But know this: clan lives to defend She-Wolf and her mate, now. Threats will be snuffed out, discontent mutterings silenced, enemies executed. There is no mercy, no middle ground. James Gordon is family, or is enemy. He lives, or he dies. _Dlya sem’i_.”

Slowly, with all the grace and elegance afforded her by blood and heritage, she stands. No longer is she a stranger or figure of suspicion, and the lack of responsive movement to her ascent says as much; the men and women standing around look upon her with deference, and the eagle’s sons watch her with the same silent homage as they pay their father. Little Peter, seated upon a brother’s lap, looks on especially with great awe and wonder.

“ _Dlya sem’i_.” she repeats, taking slow and patient steps from her chair and beginning a path around the table. “And we must hold fiercely to those words, in this city where it is father against son, mother against daughter, brother and sister alike out for each other’s throat if it will ensure they live to see another day. This cannot continue, not among us here. We are family. _Sem’ya vse_.”

She pauses, a short distance from his chair at the opposing side, and holds his gaze. “You asked how I will uproot the little bird? I will tell you.” Two more steps bring her behind his seat, then around to the other side, and she continues on. “Penguin forgets his little throne room sits amidst the great sea of businesses, disreputable and otherwise, to which Marcus DeLaine held claim. He forgets how far and how deep Marcus DeLaine’s fingers were spread in this city. He forgets that his predecessors were men and women of business, the skills of which he sorely lacks. He forgets…so very much.”

She’s returned to her original seat now, though still standing; at her side, the tiger watches with rapt adoration, blue eyes glimmering in golden light. “I have Marcus DeLaine’s blood in my veins.” Iris continues. “I cannot change this. What I can change is the pitiful nature of my inheritance. The company is corrupted, rotted from within like a corpse, but there is strength in its skeleton, and once I have cleaned away the decay, I will rebuild with the bare bones. The properties he owned throughout this city will be either salvaged or purged. Those he kept in his employ will likewise be maintained or disposed of—figuratively, or literally, whichever is necessary,” she adds, with a curious little downward glance at Zsasz, and Alexander is quite certain he sees the tiger lick his lips, “The city will see something worthwhile creeping upward from its desolate soil. Gotham will never be a clean and fresh-faced maiden, but there is no need for her to continue as a plague-ridden old crone.”

She braces both hands across the table, fingers spread wide. “Oswald Cobblepot will either see the light and make peace with our family, or he will see a bullet between his eyes. It will be his choice. In the meantime, we tend to our own affairs. Strengthen the pack, revive the clan, grow our numbers…but unless Penguin responds with unwarranted violence—which, for the record, is _any_ violence at all,” he hears a rumble of agreement throughout the gathered, “we pay him no mind. He is not worth the attention.”

One man steps forward from the wall. “And if the bird wants a fight?” he asks; it’s clear many wanted to ask the question, and this single man was chosen to make the inquiry on their behalf. All eyes are attentive now, watching with great interest, waiting with earnest. Alexander too is curious, and watches her for the short pause in which she ponders. Her answer will be the first executive order, and very often it is the one to define a leader.

“Victor holds first claim to any outright attack on the family.” She answers. “Proposed responses to threats are to be run through me first.” 

There’s amusement playing thin on her lips, coy and sharp as a razor blade, and then she quietly adds, “There is little I will deny my pack, if you ask nicely.”

Around them, some quietly nod and smirk while others laugh loud and proud. From his father’s left, Dimitri stands. He matched his older sibling in height, but is slender where Ivan was broad and muscled. Madeleine has often said this son possesses a dancer’s form, the artful sculpt of a crane in flight, but Alexander has always regarded his son as a raven. Even amongst brothers who all managed to hoard unique genes to identify themselves, Dimitri stands out the most. Hair dark as his skin—they’ve never quite understood where such coloring came from—and brown eyes too bright on his face, always alert, always sharp, and almost too large for his delicately-sculpted features. Everything about him is long and thin, but not gangly. Somehow, when God was sculpting his son inside a mother’s womb, the balance between deliberate formation and comical mistake was found and perfected.

Dimitri approaches the other side and swiftly lowers on bended knee. Perhaps to make up for his strangely, albeit fitting, appearance, he takes great pride in appearing meticulous at all times, even for something as, relatively speaking, informal as a family meeting. His steel-grey shirt and black trousers nearly blend into the shadows, and the royal blue of his silk vest catches light like a mirror. His hair is the longest of them all, but always it’s drawn back, strands slicked to smooth perfection, and fastened at his nape with a simple band.

“Permit me to enter your service, She-Wolf,” Dimitri says, tone imploring and reverent, “that I may atone for my brother’s insolence.”

Iris smiles quietly; her hands stretch outward and rest lightly at his temples half a second before she leans forward and presses lips to his brow. Alexander is quite sure the little bird played the part of Don well enough, when first weeding through his stolen inheritance, but there could have been no honesty in the gesture, not with so many bodies later found dead in the streets, tossed out like garbage. How many of them, he wonders silently, bore the Penguin’s kiss before a bullet?

Had his son—any of them, all of them—come to bended knee before the bird, Alexander knows he would have disowned him without a thought. Watching his second-born kneel to She-Wolf, standing before him every bit her grandparents’ reflection, may very well be the proudest moment of his well-seasoned life.

“ _Krov’ moyey krovi_.” Iris whispers, the promise sealed with her lips and the kiss set to Dimitri’s brow, and Alexander breathes relief.

_Blood of my blood. Family is all._


End file.
